


roam away, my raven girl

by batyatoon



Series: three lonely blackbirds [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Collection: Purimgifts Day 1, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Hugs, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-19 12:24:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22977685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batyatoon/pseuds/batyatoon
Summary: Warden Amell, the Hero of Ferelden, has her own quest before and during the events of the Inquisition. She doesn't plan on running into an old lover.
Relationships: Female Amell/Morrigan (Dragon Age)
Series: three lonely blackbirds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651258
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: Purimgifts 2020





	roam away, my raven girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



> This work is set within a few months prior to the opening of _Dragon Age: Inquisition_.
> 
> The title is from the song "[Raven Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7P84ztxzwE)," by Mimi & Richard Fariña.

It's been years since you've thought much about the [rosewood ring](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Morrigan%27s_Ring) Morrigan gave you, during that tumultuous time you knew each other. So many ways of thinking of that time: the year of the Blight, before you killed the Archdemon and became the Hero of Ferelden. The year of the interregnum, before you put Alistair on the throne. The year you became a Grey Warden, before you were the Warden-Commander. The year you traveled with the greatest friends and companions anyone ever had, before your paths all diverged again.

The year you and Morrigan were wary strangers and then friends and then lovers, before she enacted the ritual that saved your life, and then told you not to look for her and left.

You've been wearing the ring all this time, more as a habit than anything else, wearing it on a fine silver chain around your neck, under your robes. The feelings that come through it are muted that way, less immediate than when you wore it on a finger, but not entirely gone. Every now and then, over the years, you’ve felt a pulse of some emotion that doesn’t seem to go with anything happening around you at the moment, and you’ve known that somewhere Morrigan was overwhelmingly angry, or afraid, or relieved, or exhilarated.

(Or lonely, a complicated loneliness full of yearning and love, sorrow and regret and an unhappy resolve. But you’ve never been entirely sure whether -- or when -- that emotion was hers and not your own.)

You’ve had other things on your mind these past few months anyway, on your solitary quest to find a cure for the Calling. Weisshaupt first, and then the Grey Warden fortress at Montsimmard, and now this dense lush forest in the Orlesian wilds where there may have once been a Grey Warden archive, and where there may still be a cache of documents that contain the clues you so desperately need.

Maybe it’s memory that starts you thinking of her again, as you set up your camp in a small clearing, memory of another archive cache in another wild forest; maybe it’s something else. But the moment her name whispers in your mind, the rosewood ring against your chest flares with immense force, an emotion that drowns out everything else you’re feeling: astonishment, so strong it’s nearly shock, and recognition. If there were words to that emotion, they would be _you?_ and **_here?!_ **

Underbrush rustles sharply to your left. You turn, grasping your staff, to see an enormous wolf staring at you with huge golden eyes, ears back in that same astonishment.

“Morrigan,” you breathe aloud, hardly daring to believe it.

The wolf abruptly bounds at you like a mabari racing after a thrown stick, covering the yards between you before you can do more than raise your staff, and _leaps_ \-- and shimmers with arcane brilliance mid-leap, its form shifting, changing --

\-- and it’s Morrigan who collides with you, wrapping arms around you and burying her face in your shoulder, and her voice that gasps out “My love,” in the same stunned joy you’re feeling (yours or hers or both, you can’t tell and it hardly seems to matter), and all you can do is hold her close and say her name again, and again, and again.

* * *

“I’ve missed you,” you say, a little later, handing her a steaming cup of tea and pouring one of your own. There’s no reproach in it, or at least you do your best to make it that way.

“Oh, I have missed you too,” she answers warmly, taking the cup; that warmth seems to come easily to her now, as it never did when you first knew her. “So very much. I’ve missed all of you, these last years.” A touch of faint, amused bewilderment comes into her voice. “Even Alistair. I must have been mad.”

You grin at her. “Even Oghren?”

“Maybe not quite that mad.” She laughs, and sips her tea.

Probably you shouldn't ask, all things considered, but it slips out. "The child?" 

Morrigan goes still for a moment, then says without looking up: "He's well. Not far from here."

"I'm glad," you say, softly.

"As am I." She smiles, a little painfully. “My dear, I wish I could tell you everything, but it’s so good to at least see you again --”

“Wait,” you interrupt, “what do you mean, why can’t you?”

“I’m here with a purpose, love.” That old intent determination is in her eyes, as strong as ever, and as impossible to turn aside. “As I have no doubt you are. I do not wish to interfere with yours, and I cannot let you interfere with mine. No more than I could nine years ago.”

The impulse to try to hold her here is very strong, and very unwise. The most you will give it is a sigh, and a brief plaintive word. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

Morrigan glances down at the cup of tea in her hands, and sighs herself. “Nor I you, my love. But …” Softer, as she looks up and reaches to brush a wisp of hair back from her forehead. “We can have this moment, I think, regardless.”

You hold out one hand to her, palm up, resting on your knee. “Morrigan … do you think there’s a chance, any chance at all, that we could ever have more than a moment? Because I’ll wait for it, if there is.”

She looks at your hand, and hesitates. Her face is unreadable, but the sudden pulse of feeling through the ring makes heat prickle behind your eyes: a yearning, a struggle, and then a wholly unfamiliar feeling of … relenting.

And then she reaches out and closes her own hand around yours, pressing tightly. “The smallest chance,” she says, “yes. If we both live. If everything falls out as I hope it will. When I can … I’ll find you.”

“The smallest chance,” you repeat, and smile. “I’ll take it.”

* * *


End file.
